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“Shit, you’ve got it bad in here,” says Chelsea, playing the flashlight over the recording booth. They would turn the lights on, but there’s no telling which of the switches is real.

“I already called an exterminator,” says Yehuda. “They say they’re booked out for weeks.” He throws a glum bottlecap at the endless dials along the mixing bank. Some of them grow legs and scuttle away.

“Skeuomorphs are everywhere this year,” says Chelsea. “Like cicadas.” She reaches for the door and finds it’s got two new handles. Shuddering, she hopes none of them are already imitating rivets on her jeans.